1’s and 0’s (fiction)

 

Going 10 miles above the posted 35 MPH speed limit that frigid February afternoon, the gray Nissan 370Z Roadster skids on black ice in Mt. Lebanon, PA, and smashes head-on into a utility pole.  As the 17-year-old driver lies in the inflated driver’s-side airbag uninjured (he hopes he has no injuries, at least no major ones requiring hospitalization; hospitals represent death factories to him in his death-dealing country) and waits to hear the wailing ambulance siren, he dreads the trouble he’ll probably get into, having borrowed the Roadster, his stepfather’s car, sans permission just to visit his favorite record store to purchase his copy of the released-that-day, limited-to-2,000-copies worldwide LP version of his all-time favorite album, Better Mutilate Than Never by Ze Gross Prophets—2 disks, 180g virgin vinyl, exclusive illustrated booklet with complete lyrics.  As an audiophile, he cannot abide listening any further to his downloaded copy; compressed, sterile, 1’s-and-0’s music makes his temples throb.  He plans, years from now as an art-school student, to regale cute girls and/or cute boys (he’s leaned toward the latter lately) about the time he almost died totaling an awesome car due to his awesome musical taste.  That story should impress plenty of hotties.  Oh, here comes the wailing siren.  Life as a discerning, unzombified consumer, regardless of sexual orientation, has a unique soundtrack.

 

written on the spot

Copyright © 2015 by David V. Matthews

Flash fiction (a hundred words or fewer) #6: Watches

Today, I visited a high-class department store to buy a new watch.  The young, white, immaculately-coiffed saleswoman kept, well, watching me as I checked out what they had on display.  She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to, for she had a distrustful expression on her face, as if I would grab a couple of those expensive (and frankly ugly) watches, shove them into my purse, and run out of there.  Even wearing my most respectable dress couldn’t stave off the racial microaggressions.  Or maybe she just hated my dress?  American history consists of nothing but sartorial hate, right?

*****

Written on the spot

Copyright © 2015 by David V. Matthews